


Faerie Garden

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bored Sherlock Holmes, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Past Drug Use, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: While visiting his family in the country, Sherlock escapes to the gardens to play his violin and meets some of the garden's residents.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



**Chapter 1**

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice echoed into Sherlock’s subconscious. Closing his eyes, he sank into the sounds of the summer night and the music coming from his violin. He was at his parent’s country home for the weekend but had escaped to the back gardens to avoid any more concerned discussions about his drug use, lack of a socially acceptable career, and general irresponsibility as well as Mycroft’s smugness. Mycroft. He chose not to answer.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice intruded once more. Sherlock focused on Chopin’s Nocturne no. 20. “Mummy’s brought out the sticky toffee pudding and butter rum hot chocolate.”

Sherlock sighed and stopped playing. “You can have mine,” he said loudly enough for Mycroft to hear. “I’ll be inside in a bit.” That should buy him some time. Perhaps they’d all go to bed shortly.

“Don’t be too long,” Mycroft said. “Father wants to speak to you before going to bed.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and started playing again. Bored. He was bored. All of it was boring. Family. The few cases he had. The responses to his blogs. Boring. Except music. But even that left him feeling empty at times.

Chopin gave way to Bach’s Sonata No. 5 in F minor. Bach. Sherlock’s mind drifted back a few years to the conversation that he’d had with Moriarty after the trial, when they’d shared tea at Baker Street. Bach. _Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody_. He sighed and continued playing while remembering dark eyes, stylish suits, and a devilishly clever mind. 

Sherlock felt that his life was an unfinished melody and he, not Moriarty, was the one who couldn’t cope. Moriarty had left him and nothing could even come close to filling that void. Not hunting down Moriarty’s network. Not Lord Moran. Not Magnussen. None of the others. No other man could ever match Moriarty’s brilliance. 

Loneliness threatened to overwhelm him as he looked out over the garden. The moonlight, occasionally reflecting off of a pink rose petal or a copper ornament, and the dancing fireflies added to his sense of longing. So many unfinished melodies.

A firefly flew close to him as he started playing Dmitri Shostakovich’s Concerto No. 1 in A minor. It was a haunting piece that seemed to reach deep into his soul; it called and inspired him to want and search for more. The firefly landed on his violin. Sherlock contemplated pausing to brush the little beetle off but then it started writhing and metamorphosing.

Sherlock blinked and stopped playing. It was not undergoing the typical life stage changes for a coleopterid. It was almost disturbing if it weren’t so fascinating. Within a few moments the tiny insect had become a small female humanoid with delicate wings like the hind wings of a beetle. She wore a heavy dark brown metallic dress that resembled a firefly’s elytra. He stared at her and tried to remember if he’d taken anything that evening which would cause hallucinations or the appearance of faeries. 

Mycroft had insisted that the weekend should be “clean”. Sherlock had readily agreed since he’d already been drug free for three months, although close contact with his family was tempting him to unchain his mind and find an escape.

“Are you real?” he asked just as another firefly landed on the neck of his violin and rolled downward. It bumped into the first faerie, causing her to squeak, and then it also started changing, more violently than the first.

“Yes,” the female faerie answered somberly. “I’m as real as you are.” 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and decided that Mycroft must have spiked the wine with something. “I see.”

“But do you observe?” the faerie asked flatly although her eyes twinkled with amusement.

“That’s my line,” Sherlock quipped and glared at her but then watched as the other beetle became not a similar creature but a tiny thing that was something of cross between a goblin and a slug. “What is that?”

“That’s Sir George, he’s my friend,” the faerie answered and fluttered her wings coyly.

Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of the situation but decided that he would eventually deduct enough and it would start to make sense. Or he would wake up. “And who are you?” he asked her.

“I don’t have a name.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too busy for that sort of thing.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as deductions failed him. “Why are you here?”

“We live here,” the faerie explained. “Your mother is nice. She plants such pretty flowers and leaves little houses for us everywhere.” Sherlock stared at her skeptically. She pointed to the middle of the garden. “I live there, in the hollow ceramic Amanita mushroom next to the lilies.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock muttered although he did know to which decoration the creature was referring. It was one of his mother’s favorites. She had bought it at one of the markets during a visit to London.

“I most certainly do.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ll call you Lily then just so that I keep my hallucinations sorted out.”

“We’re real but I suppose that’s fine if it pleases you,” Lily said. Sherlock nodded and she continued, “You seemed sad and were playing such melancholic music. We thought we’d check on you.” The other faerie nodded in agreement.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock murmured even though he knew that was an outright lie. He was feeling miserable enough to almost enjoy the company of imaginary creatures.

“No, you’re not,” the faerie countered. “You’re sad, lonely, and alone.”

“Alone protects me.”

“Haven’t you gotten beyond _that_?” the faerie grumbled and fluttered her wings with obvious disapproval. “It’s been quite a few years now and you shouldn’t listen to your brother anyway.”

“I try not to,” Sherlock noted.

Sir George spoke in a low rumbling voice. “Why did you send your soulmate away?”

Sherlock stared at him with disbelief. “Soulmate?”

“Yes.”

“This keeps getting better...” Sherlock noted absentmindedly.

“You do have one,” both fey creatures said almost simultaneously. “Everyone does.”

“Soulmates,” Sherlock said crisply. “Not my thing.”

“Nonsense! Even your brother has one,” Lily countered. The two faeries looked at each other and solemnly nodded their heads. “Why did you send yours away?”

“Your soulmate is just as lonely and sad as you are,” Sir George added.

“Alone saves me,” Sherlock repeated.

“That’s because you haven’t bonded with your soulmate,” Lily explained.

“Silly human,” Sir George said. “And you have a special one.”

“Oh, how exciting.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. The conversation was veering from bizarre to ridiculous. “Do enlighten me as to how… _special_ … this soulmate of mine is.”

“I don’t think you deserve one with the way you’re acting,” Lily said grumpily.

“He’s like us,” Sir George intoned solemnly, ignoring Lily.

Sherlock stared at him. “Wings and a top hat perhaps? That’s really not my thing.”

“If you’re going to be rude, we’re leaving,” Lily said and again fluttered her wings.

“What? You can’t leave now,” Sherlock said. “This is becoming more and more... something and I don’t even feel sick yet. We can keep going although I’m going to have to figure out what I took and how to recreate this.” He set his violin down, causing both faeries to alight, and put his hands under his chin. “Do go on. Tell me all about him. At least you’ve got my preferences correct.” 

“I’m not telling you anything else,” Lily said. “Except that he’s smarter than you are.”

Sherlock smiled wanly. Not even Mycroft was smarter than he was. “That’s fantastic. I’m overjoyed.”

“You should be,” Lily continued. “And he’s very handsome.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “And I think that’s all I’m telling you.” She fluttered her wings and flew up to his eye level. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was relieved that she might be leaving or disappointed because he was enjoying the interaction with her just a bit. “How do I find him?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Are you going to be nice?”

“Nice is not my thing.”

“Then I don’t think I will.”

Sherlock frowned but then Sir George spoke. “His soulmate isn’t nice.”

“Thank goodness,” Sherlock mumbled. “We might have a small chance of getting along.”

“You’re not helping, Sir George,” Lily groused. “And he’s being obnoxious.”

“That’s good. They’ll get along.”

“I’m starting to like this idea,” Sherlock said. They were actually describing someone he might be able to tolerate for a few minutes. “Tell me who he is and how to find him and I’ll see. It can’t be worse than Mycroft’s company.”

Both faeries nodded. “If you go to the faerie wall near St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” Lily explained. “Then ask Grandmother where he is. She’ll be able to tell you.”

“Faerie wall. St. Patrick’s. Dublin, I presume? Ask grandmother,” Sherlock repeated while trying to keep the disbelief from his voice.. “How will I know who or what Grandmother is?”

“You’ll be able to figure it out or just ask,” Lily said. “ _Everyone_ knows Grandmother.”

“Just ask…” Sherlock repeated but then decided that it didn’t matter all that much. It certainly wouldn’t be boring to play along. “Sure, why not. I’ll bring some whiskey or whatever it was that I took if I have any left and then I just won’t care.”

“Or you could tap Lily’s head in the appropriate pattern and she’ll send you there,” Sir George suggested.

“That sounds fantastical,” Sherlock said. “This hallucination really does keep getting better and better. I’m off to Neverland or some such rot and Mycroft will have no idea whatsoever how it all happened.”

“That’s a bonus,” Sir George noted seriously. “I annoy my siblings all the time.”

Considering the creature’s strange appearance, Sherlock wondered what those siblings might look like and if they resembled Mycroft. “What’s the super secret code?”

Lily smirked. “Just tap out part of Bach’s Partita no. 1.”

The world seemed to stop as Sherlock mind focused on those words. _Partita no. 1_. He hadn’t heard that in years. He pictured Jim Moriarty tapping it out with his fingers on his knee. Those beautiful fingers. That wicked smile. The intensity of that encounter. Sherlock shuddered and reached out toward the faerie. Once again, he replayed the scene and tapped out the pattern on her head. In his mind, he heard the music clearly, Bach, Partita no. 1, coming from his fingers, and felt himself falling.

“See, he knows his soulmate,” Sherlock heard Sir George in his mind along with Lily laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds his soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you've enjoyed this short little story.

**Chapter 2**

The cement sidewalk stopped his fall rather abruptly and Sherlock winced. That hadn’t been the gentlest of landings. “Are ya alright?” someone asked. “That was quite the spill ya took.” Dublin accent. Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself looking up at two young men, dressed casually, wearing tweed flat caps, holding bottles, and most definitely inebriated. 

Deductions flooded his mind. They worked for CRH, the global construction materials supply company based in Dublin. One loved the job; the other was looking for work elsewhere. The first one was married but had taken off his ring for the night. The second was gay, severely closeted and very Catholic. Might be infatuated with his married friend.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, sitting up. The first man offered his arm and Sherlock pulled himself up. “Thank you.” He looked around and saw that he was in front of a wall that had tiny little doors embedded in it. Interesting. “St. Patrick’s Cathedral is nearby, correct?”

“That way,” the first man said and pointed behind him. “It ain’t far.” Sherlock smiled. It seemed that he was at the correct faerie wall. Fey transport was clearly much better and faster than the tube.

“But they won’t help ya this time o’night,” the other one said. “We’re off to Old Charlie’s, want to join us? They’ve got a special all night.”

“All mornin’ too,” the first one laughed. “Hoping to find m’self a pretty colleen.” He laughed. “Or two.”

“Thank you, no,” Sherlock said. “I’m trying to find a friend.”

“Friend? Bring ‘em. The more the merrier.”

“Grandmother,” Sherlock clarified and then observed to see if there was any sort of recognition. None.

“Oh, yeah?” the second said and also laughed. “Well, when ya find yer Gran, come to Charlie’s. We’ll buy ‘er a round. My gran loves herself some poitín.” He pointed to his right. “Two blocks that way, then turn left.”

“Right, ya idjit,” the other one corrected. “Turn right.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’ll be sure to do that once I find her,” Sherlock murmured and then watched them stagger off. “Have fun.” They started singing something that sounded like Whiskey in a Jar but Sherlock wasn’t quite sure. He sighed. He was obviously still under the effects of whatever it was that he’d ingested and the hallucination was in full effect.

After shaking his head to try and clear his thoughts, Sherlock began investigating the tiny doors on the wall while trying to determine what sort of inhabitants he’d find behind each one. “I possess very little data on Irish fey or imaginary creatures in general,” he muttered. 

They were all colorfully painted and some were intricately carved. One caught his attention. It was a bright purple color with roses painted on the edges. He imagined someone like Mrs. Hudson living there so he tapped on it. “Hello?”

The door opened and a tiny old woman emerged. She had a large beehive hairdo, brilliant green eyes, an inordinately large nose and wore an enormous ballroom gown with countless ruffles and sequins. “Yes?” she asked but then smiled with recognition. “Well, it’s about time you arrived, dear. I’ve been waiting.”

“Grandmother, obviously,” Sherlock said.

Nodding, she smiled broadly. It was an odd combination of warm, caring, and grotesque. “I am and I know why you’re here.”

Sherlock chose to ignore where she was leading the conversation. “How is it that I can see you, all of you, now?” he asked. “I don’t remember taking anything although Mycroft has said he owes me one. I don’t feel drunk, drugged, or otherwise altered. And here you are.”

“Here we are.”

“Do you realize how utterly absurd all of this is?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“What is the explanation?”

She smiled and Sherlock imagined her terrifying small children with that expression. “Anyone can see us, dear, if they let themselves. We’re everywhere. You simply need to know how to look.”

“I see,” Sherlock said skeptically. “This is all quite improbable.”

“What do you have left to exclude?”

“I’m not sure but life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent, so perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

“Your heart is setting your imagination free and it’s ready for love.”

“Repulsive chemical defect.”

“Where there is no imagination there is no horror.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said. “If this isn’t real then you must be some sort of caricature of an aspect of my mind but if you are real, then we must continue to have this sort of conversation.”

“I’ll come to tea.”

“I’ll have the kettle ready. It seems I do that somewhat frequently. But I suppose we should get on with this. Where is this so called soulmate of mine? Does he have a similar chemical defect? I was told he has some redeeming qualities.”

“Will you plant some hollyhock for me?” Grandmother asked. “I do so adore them.”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed. He made a mental note to ask Mummy to plant that because she would appreciate his supposed interest in plants.

“Thank you, dear. You’re looking for the cottage with a lantern by the door at the far end of the main street in the village of Ballyboughal. There are some apple trees on the side and pretty plants and flowers everywhere. I visit often. Violets and petunias everywhere as well as foxglove and sunflowers. However, do be careful around the sundial. Dubheasa rests there frequently and she’ll bite you if she’s in a cursed mood.”

Sherlock snickered but then realized he needed a little more information since he wasn’t familiar with the location of the village. “She sounds interesting but how will I get to Ballyboughal at this time of night?” He smiled charmingly and hoped Grandmother would fall for it the way Mrs. Hudson did. “I don’t suppose _you_ can get me there as well?”

“Will you ask him to bake me some of his rhubarb apple muffins? They’re delightful.”

“I can ask.”

“Then off you go,” she said and waved her hand. Brightly colored sparks flew from her fingers and again Sherlock felt as though he were falling. The Dublin streets vanished and he landed clumsily in the middle of a country road. “These falls are going to kill me,” he groused under his breath. A stray cat hissed at his sudden appearance and then slunk away.

Sighing, Sherlock brushed himself off and looked around. Even though it was well into the night a few houses on the street still had lights on and he could see well enough with the moonlight. It all seemed very quaint. 

After picking up a stone and skipping it down the street, he ambled toward the last house. The road ended in a cul-de-sac and he could see a cottage set off from the road. It had a cobblestone path, and an eclectic but well manicured garden with lots of decorations. Much like his mother’s garden. The cottage had white walls and a thatched roof. “Am I expected to date a leprechaun?” Sherlock muttered to himself.

As he walked up to the wooden door, the sound of the breeze rustling the trees and the scent of roses and petunias soothed him. While he had no intention of ever retiring and keeping bees in Sussex, Sherlock could see himself coming to this place on weekends to write treatises; he had so many still unwritten. It also seemed like the perfect place to get caught up on his reading.

Climbing the steps, he admired the troll door knocker, and was about to knock when the door opened. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock wondered what sort of creature would greet him and then gasped when he saw Jim Moriarty.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Jim said. A thousand deductions flew through Sherlock’s mind but none fell into place. The man looked well. Slightly older. Poised. Smirking. _Alive_. The diamond stud earring was new. One carat, astor cut, four prong platinum setting, colorless, and seemingly flawless to the naked eye. Sherlock quickly brought up all the jewelry heists in the past few years and narrowed it down to two. 

“How are you?” Jim interrupted his analysis. Looking into the man’s eyes, Sherlock replayed what had happened on the rooftop and nothing made sense. Moriarty should be dead, not expecting him. He needed to buy himself some time and collect his wits not lose them every time he was in the man’s proximity. Jim purred, “Grandmother said you were coming for a visit.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Moriarty had the uncanny ability to make his heart start pounding and put him on edge. “Did she call you?” he asked sarcastically, while forcing himself to relax. Jim Moriarty was alive, well, and standing in front of him. “Or send you a telegram?”

“We talk in other ways,” Jim murmured seductively. “Come inside.” He gestured for Sherlock to enter. “No coat?”

“I left it at Mummy’s.”

“I suppose that’s for the best,” Jim said and Sherlock frowned. What did that mean? Moriarty continued to leave him unbalanced. “You look well.”

“I haven’t killed Mycroft… yet,” Sherlock blurted out and then wondered where that had come from.

“Pity. There’s still time.” Jim pulled him into his arms and Sherlock’s hesitation fade away. It felt as though he were coming home. He wanted to say something, anything, but then Jim kissed him and somehow everything became right. All his anxiety, his feelings of being lost in the world, his boredom, his search for the next high or the next conquest and the next personal validation ceased to exist. Jim understood him.

Sherlock kissed him back. He wanted to ask so many questions and make all his observations fit into neat little spaces in his mind palace but somehow it no longer mattered that much. Jim was alive, holding him, and it would all work out. If this was a dream, Sherlock didn’t want to wake up. Jim accepted him the way he was. Jim understood him.

Jim undressed him. Jim took him to the bedroom. Jim kissed him. Jim made love to him. Jim fed him breakfast. Jim held him in his arms as though his life depended on it. Jim played Sherlock’s body the way he played the violin. Jim made lunch. Jim took him on walks in his gardens. Jim showed him the flowers and all the faeries that lived there. Jim cooked him dinner. Jim sat next to him companionably when he read, deduced, and theorized on all manner of subjects. Their conversations were brilliant and mentally stimulating while Jim’s touches elicited magical sensations that were better than any drug. Jim loved him.

Sherlock lost track of time. Day turned into night and then back again. He felt their souls meld and any insecurity or fears that he had buried melted away. After three days, he was finally able to return Jim’s sweet words. “I love you,” he murmured. 

Jim kissed him. “I’ve always loved you…”

 

 _The End_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my April entry for the Sherlock Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt is **garden**. Fabricdragon gave me the additional prompts of rose(s) and sundial.


End file.
